


Other People’s Heartaches

by emmacortana



Series: Bandstand fics [1]
Category: Bandstand - Oberacker/Oberacker & Taylor
Genre: Angst, Babyfic, Character Study, You’ll see what i mean when i say this is a babyfic but not rlly, and also guys i do not like babyfics i dont read them i dont write them but, except not really, like depression too, the baby is just a catalyst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23066680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmacortana/pseuds/emmacortana
Summary: The first month after Michael’s leave ends, Julia doesn’t leave her bed.The second month, she starts throwing up.The third month, she still hasn't left her bed.
Relationships: Donny Novitski & Michael Trojan, Donny Novitski/Julia Trojan, Julia Trojan/Michael Trojan
Series: Bandstand fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694047
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	Other People’s Heartaches

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so let me make this clear, i do n o t like babyfics. I don’t read them. I don’t write them. I was actually so ashamed at writing this like i fully could not bring myself to tell my friend the premise even when i wanted her input on like what happens to the baby. I just like, had a vision for what i wanted, and I needed a catalyst, and I needed a reason for Julia to spiral herself into a little hole so I could coax her back out, you know? And then shove her back in? And a baby w o r k e d goddamnit.
> 
> Also the summary fucking sucks i just dk what to put for it and the title is even worse its just like the album ive been listening to the past while?? I couldnt think of a single title that actually fits the story and also isnt cheesy so if u have an idea itd be much appreciated. Also, you’ll see a drastic decline in the quality of this fic around the time i stopped rewriting it cause seriously, my chem lab report is due tmr, and i havent even done my BACKGROUND RESEARCH. bonus points to anyone who can guess where.
> 
> And I tried to make it somewhat historically and medically accurate but i fucking failed history class with a 38% y’all i just dont give a shit u kno? Also at a certain point there were things that like i knew in history but likw, just chose to ignore. Like commercial flights were DEFFO not a thing but i still used them for the sake of the plot. But leaves were apparently a thing, like for two weeks a year, and Australia was kinda fucked and that's where donny and Michael were placed. so. Also, like we don’t know shit about Michael, y’all, this is just me trynna write a rlly cute straight romance and miserably failing. Cause here’s the thing, this fic will make it seem like i ship julia and michael so much more than i actually do. But like i barely even know michael, u kno?? I just thought it was so important to establish that Julia really loves Michael and Michael loves her. Like they’re the real deal. But sometimes life doesn’t work out that way, and Donny’s babey to me.
> 
> This is so fucking long and no ones gonna read this or care cause no ones in the fandom anyway but i just spent all weekend typing this out bc it just oozed out of me u kno?? Like i needed it to be written. All almost 7000 words of shit.
> 
> Enjoy.

The first month after Michael’s leave, Julia falls into a deep exhaustion that ties her to the bed.

She figures it was him, or rather the lack of him. It was cruel to give them two weeks together, and then force her to send him back with a kiss and a prayer, to write letters every week and count the days until the next year’s leave. She’d done this twice already, and she couldn’t bear to do a third.

Every year she thinks it would’ve been kinder just to quietly take him, and keep him until the war was done. To save her the grief and heartache, the days afterwards weeping in a house meant for three.

And then the next year comes, and Michael is at her door, and she wouldn’t trade this for the world.

So Julia doesn’t think anything of it when her appetite weaned and her bones grew heavy. She’s missing her husband, after all—so much she can barely bring herself to write his letters, and shambles into pieces when she gets hers.

And then the next month, she starts vomiting.

Every so often, she’s feeling completely fine, and then suddenly she’s keeling over in pain. Peggy at work rubs her back and makes soothing noises she doesn’t register with her world spinning. She wonders if heartache can make someone sick. She chokes on the irony of her husband being at war, and she’s the one dying.

And then she realizes that more than a month has passed since she last bled, and things start making sense

Julia swallows her fear and goes to a doctor alone, waiting for a confirmation she already knows. Then, she walks straight home into her bedroom, where all night she cries so hard she throws up.

She tells her mom the next day, and they cry together.

“Are you going to tell Michael?” She asks, and Julia shakes her head.

“Not yet. Not until I know for sure.” Her mother doesn’t need to ask what she means; she knows from before. The third month. Once she passes the third month, she’ll tell Michael. If the baby—God, the _baby_ , lasts one more month, she’ll send him the letter. Until then, they wait.

Her mother fusses. June Adams has always been one to keep her hands busy and she is on a rampage, giving her all their rations of meat and dairy, spending money they don’t have on the few real, unprocessed foods that are so rare in the war. It seems that Julia’s eating cottage cheese every breakfast, casseroles made of whatever they could grow in their garden for dinner, and her mom has drawn a strict diet for her—vitamin and protein supplements for the imported fruits, meats and dairy in shortage. She’s forced on a walk around the neighbourhood twice a day, and manhandled to bed early every night.

Two weeks later, Julia lets her mom write a letter to her father. The next day, he shows up at her door with a dozen yellow flowers and a stiff lips. He offers his congratulations, and stares at her barely-showing midriff the entire time. When her mom politely invites him inside, he stumbles over himself to say he has work. When the door closes between them, all three breathe a sigh of relief.

Julia hasn’t quite let herself love the baby yet. It’s still too early—still in the danger period, when the baby could just as easily be taken away as it was brought to her. Still, sometimes she catches herself humming softly, resting a protective hand on her still-small stomach. Sometimes, she calls the slight pouch a “she.” And then she thinks of Michael in the war and she scrubs her hand in freezing water.

She shouldn’t have to do this alone. She’s not meant to do this alone. Michael should be here, _Michael_ should be the one comforting her, soothing her wild nerves, massaging the tension out of her shoulders, placing soft kisses onto her face until she laughs. He should be going on her walks with her, drive her to the appointments, hold her hair back when the sickness strikes suddenly, whispering reassurances to her. He should be here to call her beautiful when she feels bloated, deal with her ridiculous mood swings in the day, and placate her mom from overcrowding her in her worry.

Having this baby without the father—Julia doesn’t know how to survive that.

She’s already spiralling. She’s called in sick to work too many times, it’s a wonder how she hasn’t been laid off. She rarely leaves the house except on the walks, doesn’t even go to church, and stays in her bed all day. She’s sleeping more often than not, and all that she eats is when her mother gives her a pointed look, and she brings herself to chew.

But when she puts her hand on her stomach, she feels something there. A little girl, maybe, with brown hair and grey eyes. The house is never quiet because all day long, she shrieks and sings silly little songs, and Julia never has to worry about an empty house again.

(But then Michael still isn’t here, so she washes her hands again.)

When she goes to bed each night, she can’t tell if she wants the baby or not.

But the three months are up too soon, and try as she might, she can’t avoid the doctor’s appointment a week and a half afterwards. This time, her mother drives her, and sits on a chair in the corner. The doctor comes in, spreads cold goo on her stomach, and tells her that everything is going perfectly, no visible complications. Congratulations, she’s passed the danger-period. They let her see the screen, and there’s just the tiniest thing. If she squints, she can almost make out ten fingers and toes, but she’s sure she’s just looking that into it. They play her the heartbeat, and it’s deafening to her the entire drive home.

It looks like the baby’s here to stay, and Julia is sitting at her desk trying to write the letter to Michael.

_Dear Michael,_ it says. _I wish you were here with me right now. I wish I could see your face every morning and every night in bed. You don’t know how much easier that would make this._

And then she tosses it out and starts again.

Every night, she sits at her desk, trying to find the right words to pen. _We’re having a child,_ she wants to say. _We’re having a child and I need you_

She’s still trying to write them down when she gets his next letter, scribbling his worry that he didn’t receive a letter the week before, and Julia feels a pang of guilt. Two and a half weeks, trying to find some damn way to say two words.

This was never meant to be written down. She’s supposed to be able to yell it at him, and he swings her around, and they’re laughing so hard they collapse. Not written. Never written.

And then it feels like God himself had heard her prayers, because he writes that he’s being transferred from the Solomon Islands to Bougainville, with a pitstop in a town in Queensland for God knows why. _I’m excited to sleep in a bed again,_ he scrawls, _if only for the night._

Queensland. Not completely out of the firezone, but close enough. As long as she stays clear of Brisbane…

She catches the next flight there, which isn’t hard considering that no-one wants to take an already risky flight to a near-active war zone. It’s a long flight, full of bumps and drops, and they have to take constant stops to refuel. Her nose bleeds for half the trip.

When she finally arrives, she takes a train and then a bus into the town and books a room in the cheapest inn there.

And she waits.

It’s four days later—four days of nausea, and morning sickness, and a dizziness that never seems to go away. At four months now, her stomach is showing—not quite big enough to burden her moving, but there’s a softness to the curves that wasn’t there before. The sickness is back with a vengeance, her nose is still bleeding, and a simple flight of stairs leaves her breathless. Worst of all, it’s four days of doubting; four days of thinking that maybe he isn’t even coming to this inn after all.

But then is the day she hears loud voices in an otherwise deserted hostelry, and she’s running faster than she’s ever in her life. She sees him then, an arm slung around another soldier, bickering with a third as they walk down the halls. Leisurely strolling, as if they weren’t in the middle of a warzone every other day but today.

Because today, Julia is choking on a sob as she flings herself at him.

“Wh—Julia?” He says incredulously, knocked back by the force of her body. She’s trembling, amd she can feel him tremble as she clutches onto him. “ _Julia._ ”

She’s leaving wet spots on his universe as she bodily sobs, little wretched gasps escaping her. She feels his composure disintegrating—shocked away by the surprise of her presence, and held back as he tangles one hand into her hair, using his other arms to pull her closer to him. She’s crying so hard she can’t breathe, hiccupping like a mad woman.

They stand there for a while, Julia feeling him breathe as her own breath returns to her, and she can feel the stares of the other two soldiers and can’t help but think of how awful she must look right now—no makeup, a dress more wrinkles than fabric, hair a tangled mess, barely standing upright. She thinks she looks ruined, and to some degree, thinks it’s true.

Michael’s hands are also shaking less as he pulls back to really look at her, desperately searching her face for something. And Julia remembers that words exist, because Michael is alarmed, demanding an explanation as to why she’s here, she shouldn’t be here, it isn’t safe, and she can see the regret in his eyes at telling her of the transfer and she has to lower her eyes to stare at his feet, nervously fluttering her hands.

“I had to see you,” she says shivering, and this sweet man hasn’t wandered his eyes anywhere from her face and he doesn’t notice the bump of her stomach.

“Julia, it’s dangerous. You have to go home,” he pleads again, his hands gripping her arms. She looks at him—not his eyes, she can’t bear to do that yet—but everywhere else. It’s painful to do that, to really look at him. His hair’s grown out a bit since she’s last seen him, and he’s just a little bit off of his center of balance, which makes her worry about any injuries. But other than that, he doesn’t look so different.

She can feel the exhaustion seeping out of him; longs to be able to rub the tension from his shoulders, brush his hair back with her fingers until he falls asleep, kiss the strain out of his jaw.

But that’s why she’s here, after all.

“Michael,” she says, and her voice is so wobbly she can barely make it out herself. “Michael, I can’t go home without you.”

If he wasn’t alarmed before, he certainly is now—searching into her eyes wildly, a nervous chuckle startling out of him.

“What do you mean, Jules, of course you can! You have to.” He sounds scared, and Julia’s a little glad she isn’t the only one. “Jules, what brought this on? Why are you here? Your mom—”

“Mom didn’t know until it was too late,” she cuts off. She can’t feel the guilt yet, of spending money they can’t afford on a plane ride. “It’s just… I was trying to tell you for a month now, and I couldn’t, you see, and I was trying to do it all alone but I _couldn’t_ , Michael, _I can’t_.” The words that took so long to come are falling out of her and she can’t stop it, doesn’t even think of trying. “I can’t go home without you. You can’t ask me to try.” 

She feels his friends bristle, both awkwardly watching the scene unfold. They should be forcing her off; make her leave them all so they can get at least one good night before being shipped back into hell. She knows them, as much as she can know anyone she’s never met. She knows from his letters that these are good men, men Michael would die in battle for. For that, she thinks she hates them a little bit, but not too much. The one Michael had his arms around is much younger than Julia would’ve thought, from the fleeting glances she spares him. He looks like he was barely drafted, maybe a year younger than her, and at least four than Michael. Too young to know about war, she thinks.

Michael is sputtering, and Julia feels sort of bad that she surprised him so suddenly, and she knows what he thinks of her implications. This is more than a declaration of love—it’s foolish and reckless and dangerous and damn it if Julia doesn’t mean every word of it and as she unconsciously rests a hand on her stomach, she feels a shift in the hall.

It’s the kid. He’s gasped so sharply that even Julia noticed it, and his eyes go to her stomach. A moment later, the other man is doing the same. He steps up and claps Michael on the shoulder, says, “We’ll be in the room,” and leads the kid out, both trying their best not to awkwardly look at her. She thinks she can hear a mutter of _there’s irony in there about his name somewhere_ as they walk away, but then the kid hits the guy before they quickly disappear.

And then they’re alone, and bless him, this man still hasn’t caught on. She has to spell it out for him, of course. His head is probably still spinning from seeing her in the first place; of course he’s too disoriented to notice her small-ish bump, hidden underneath this awful dress. “Why don’t we head to my room,” she says, and she doesn’t wait for an answer before leading him down the hall. She can feel his confusion broaden as she opens the door to her room and ushers him inside.

So she takes his hand and smiles at him through her tears, and she says softly, “Michael. Michael, I’m pregnant.”

And then she breaks through to him.

“You’re….” He stammers, glancing back and forth from her face to her stomach, which she could see him realizing, yes, it was a fair bit bigger than it was a couple months ago. She keeps her eyes trained on his as she feels the understanding creep in. “You’re…”

“Pregnant,” she finishes, and she startles as a laugh bubbles out of him. Michael’s smiling, but she can barely see because he’s scooping her up in a hug and twirling her around before suddenly tensing up setting her down, worry clear on his face. She’s giggling too, and she never giggles, but his obvious uncertainty of what a pregnant woman can and can’t do does her in, and soon he’s smothering her face with kisses.

“How?” He asks, and his eyes sparkle. He looks so happy that it breaks her heart a little.

“I don’t know,” she says, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Your leave…”

And he still looks astonished, and she laughs because she can read it all in his face as he says, “But…” and she really does think there’s a joke in here about his name. Maybe if she had stayed Julia Adams, this wouldn’t have happened. She chuckles at the thought.

“I don’t know,” she repeats, “but it’s over four months along, now. Soon, she should start kicking.” And she ducks her head shyly as he asks, _She?_ And clarifies, “I don’t know yet, actually. I haven’t asked. We can find out soon, if you want.”

And the pained look is back in his eyes again. “Julia, you _shouldn’t be here_. Especially now. You have to go back—”

“I can’t,” Julia says. “Michael Trojan, we are having a _baby_ . We’re having a baby, and _I need you_.”

“Jules, you know I can’t. I was drafted, and the fine for skipping out—”

“But you can,” she says. “You can. We’re having a baby. We can put in a family appeal. Make the case that your family needs you. Mom can divorce Dad, and then you’ll be the only man in an expecting family. I’ll have to take a leave in just a few months, and then we won’t have an income. They’ll have to give you a pardon!”

“And if they don’t? Julia, I love you, and you can’t believe how happy I am right now, but I can’t just turn my back on the war. Who knows the government wouldn’t just send you a bit of money? The might not have the decency to do even that.”

“Then we can go to Canada! Say you have some medical illness. Hell, convert to mormonism! Say you’re gay! Appeal closer to home! You don’t have to be a soldier to help in the war, Michael, and I can’t raise a child unknowing if they’ll ever meet their father. If I’m going back home, then you’re taking me there, and if you’re going back to fight, then by God I’m coming with you.”

“Coming with me?” And Michael sounds astounded, like she’s really lost her mind now. And maybe she has. It doesn’t matter, though, because she’s lifting her chin in defiance and staring straight at him. This is the one thing she’ll die fighting him about, and he must see it, because there’s no fight in his body—only sheer exhaustion. “Jules, you’re _pregnant_ . They wouldn’t even let you as a woman come with a men’s troop, especially not when you haven’t registered as a soldier. Especially not when you’re having a _baby_.”

“I don’t care,” she fired back. “Maybe I can’t come with you, but you can’t stop me from going after you. God, Michael, it’s killed me every day since you left, not knowing whether each letter would be the last. Not knowing if I’d ever see you again. How can I continue on like that when we’re having an honest to God child. If you won’t come back with me, I swear to hell I’m following you, and even you can’t stop that.

“I’ve felt dying every day for the last months. And I even hated this baby too, a little bit. And that’s so awfully, incredibly wrong, because I love her, I love her so much, I want to have her with you so goddamn much, but I hated her too because I needed you and you weren’t there.”

She says it and immediately falls back, tears coming back. It feels like she’s just been stabbed, to say it all out loud like that.

But Michael doesn’t look angry. He just looks sad—so unspeakably sad, as he pulls her into a hug. He’s always known what she needs, and he knows that right now, she needs a promise.

“Okay,” he says quietly, and Julia hiccups and she’s crying too hard to get that, which he knows because he knows her. “Okay. I’ll go home with you. But you have to give me a month. Just one month—for the appeal to process in. Then I’ll meet you at home.”

Julia collapses where she stands, supported only by Michael who keeps running his hand up and down her back. It’s a fierce hug—it barely leaves her room to breathe, but she’s collapsed and she’s crying because Michael said okay. Michael’s coming home.

“And if they don’t let you?” She still asks, voice shaky because he was right, before, they didn’t have to let him go home. There were tons of men out there with families, and while it was true that they were of less priority in the draft, the need for soldiers always outweighed the need for family.

He smiled dryly. “Then I guess we’re going to Canada.”

She sobs into his shoulder, pulling herself away only slightly to hold his face in her hands and to kiss him, as hard as she could, to feel him alive and here and not in a cold trench somewhere surrounded by enemies on all sides. He’s Michael and he’s _here_ , and in just one month—and Julia could give him one month, she knows what he means when he says he needs time—time to finish things up, to tie up ends. Michael had been fighting with these men for three years, and now he has to abandon them on the battlefield. He’s joining her on the other side of the wall, and he needs time to let it go. To accept that he might never see them again, that they might die and he wouldn’t be there. Julia’s not heartless enough to deny him his goodbye. But in just one month, he’ll be home, and they’ll be a family.

“Alright,” she says. And she smiles. More than smiles, she laughs. “One month until you come home to me, Michael Trojan. One month until you have to come to every doctor’s appointment with me, until you go shopping for cradles with me.”

And Michael smiles back at her. “One month until I’m massaging swollen feet, you mean.” And she laughs and sits down on her bed, kicking off her shoes and wriggling her toes at him.

“You can start now, if you want,” she says, grinning, and just like that, it’s the way things used to be.

He sits down next to her, and she kicks her legs up on his lap, where he grabs her feet and starts tickling the soles, cackling at her shrieks. It’s so easy to fall back into her rhythm with him. So easy for him to know what she needs from him, and then do something silly to make her laugh. She kicks her feet away from his reach, before falling on top of him, effectively pinning him down. Not very well; she doesn’t weigh that much, and Michael’s been a trained soldier for three years now. But he doesn’t make a move to get out from under her grip, or at least, he only does it for show. It’d be the easiest thing in the world for him to just sit up or roll her aside, but somehow it’s easier still to relax into her hold and wave the white flag. She yields and rolls off him, but keeps their legs tangled. They lie on their sides, facing each other, foreheads pressed together.

Julia knows she added an extra weight onto his shoulders—that not being out there, where his friends are, will plague his dreams at night. So she pushes back a strand of his hair and puts a hand on his cheek, caressing her thumb over his cheekbone. Just as much as Michael knows her, she knows him as well. She can see the tension in his shoulders, the stiff way he holds himself even when he’s lying down.

She kisses the tip of his nose before tucking herself into his arms, using his shoulder as a pillow. She hears the steady thump of his heart, the way they speed up and slow back down in sync with his even breaths.

“I missed you,” he says, suddenly. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m still not happy you’re here, but there’s not a day that went by that I wasn’t thinking of you, Jules. That I was counting the nights until I’d see you again.”

She hums back at him, fingers dancing around on his chest, waiting a moment before speaking. “I missed you too. We have a couple hours, Michael. You should get some sleep while you can.”

He sighed. “Yeah, probably.” He’s cradling her, and this just feels so _right_ , like everything’s clicked into place. It’s always Michael and Julia, and now a baby Michael-and-Julia. And they’re together and alive, entangled on a lumpy bed until they’re forced away. “You won’t leave, right?”

She smiles at him, soft and sweet. “I’ll stay right here.”

It takes some time to get him relaxed enough to sleep—a while of stroking his chest, playing with his hair, even humming lowly until he turns to a sleepy putty in her hands. She feels his breath even out, limbs slowly becoming deadweight and his arm falls from around her.

It’s something she’s had a bit of practice in, pulling him to bed and lying with him there until his exhaustion won. It probably doesn’t hurt that he was already bone-tired. It was always a little bit more work whenever he was on leave at home—he’d be restless and jumpy and he’d say that he just wanted to spend every moment with her awake but Julia knew that was only part of the truth.  
  
Julia was disappointed but not surprised when there was a knock on the door, disrupting the peaceful drone of Michael’s light snoring and Julia’s drifting off. She carefully untucked herself, laughing at his whine, and opened the door to find the kid on the other side.

She really had to stop calling him the kid—he was probably barely younger than her, with dark hair and wide eyes. He has a double-take when he looks at her, (she really doesn’t know what he was expecting when he knocked on her door, and he says, “Um, uh, I had to ask the key clerk what room you were in. Um. Anyway. Serge’s looking for us for lights out, and Rubber….Michael….needs to be there.”

She nods at him, says, “I’ll wake him up,” half-closing the door as she goes to kneel down next to Michael.

He’s half-awake already, considering the knocking, so when she says, “Michael, love, you need to go,” it’s all he needs to sit up.

He smiles lazily, and it’s the same smile that made her fall in love with him all those years ago. It’s the smile that makes her now reach for him, kiss him slowly, before pulling him up out of the bed. "Rubber, huh?" She teases him, and it’s the smile that’s tinged with sadness, just a bit, as he drinks her in as much as he can.

It’s the smile he wears as he kisses her cheek and whispers, “One month,” and Julia whispers it back to him as she lets him go. She knows that once he’s left, he’ll be surrounded by men who have no clue she’s there, who would be all too happy to force her home themselves. He won’t see her again.

He knows that too, so he lowers himself onto his knees and kisses her stomach, her letting out a twinkly laugh at the strange sensation, not to mention the ridiculousness of it all, and he says, “Take care of your mama, alright? Gotta keep her standing until I get there, babe.”

“I love you, Michael. Come back to me,” she says.

“I love you more. And I always do.” With a wink, he opens the door and slings his arm around the kid again. As they walk away—and they’ve learned it’s easiest to do just that, walk away, no looking back, no regrets—Julia can hear a _thanks for getting me, let’s get some sleep_ , and then, _do I get to be an uncle now?_

They leave the next day, and Julia watches from her window. She doesn’t think Michael saw her, but he does look back at her room as his troop drives away.

The next day, she catches a flight back home.

It seems that the letters had increased tenfold

When she gets home, there are already a pile of letters waiting for her. Michael had never been one to write much—he didn’t have much patience for sitting still, but she knew he tried his best to write to her during the war. She was never offended when Betty across the block got her letters every day on the dot, because she knew how demanding Michael’s position was, and she knew that an hour a week was already more than he could spare from his sleep. Betty’s sweetheart wasn’t in the Solomon Islands. A newer soldier in the rookie troops’ rarel saw battle, and Michael lived it daily. So she wasn’t angry, even when Betty looked at her with a faux-shocked-pity when she saw her get the mail once a week, and she wanted to shake her.

Instead, she always made sure to write to him twice a week, attaching little bits of her life inside the envelopes. A poem she wrote that she was particularly proud of, an acorn that a squirrel had dropped on her head in the park, a picture of her with a ridiculous amount of flour on her apron as they made wartime no-sugar apple “cakes,” and even an extremely rare butterscotch candy that a rich customer had once offered her. He wrote back that he’d smashed it apart and shared it with a friend.

But apparently, Michael had found time, or perhaps enough energy to write more, because he was writing letters every day now, filled with his excitement for a family, suggestions for baby names, some so silly that it made her laugh. She firmly vetoed August— _come on Julia, it’s a family name!_ —and even wrote that he wanted to name their child after the thing he loved and missed most in the world: Mangoes.

Not just from him, but the other members of his troops as well. A man she could only assume to have been the older one Michael was bickering with wrote her his congratulations, and suggested the name _An-extra Big_.

_The guys are really excited,_ Michael wrote. _All they do is hit me on the back and tease me about my name, crowd around whenever you give an update on the baby. They’re already calling themselves uncles. Nova gives me a bad look every time I even pick up a gun. Said you should name him Donny, by the way. When I told him your abject refusal that the baby is anything but a girl, he amended to Donna._

The next letter, she sends back a picture of her with her significant bump, one her mother took of her outside gardening in a yellow sundress.

The response is a letter with little notes from an army of men, each gentlemanly complimenting her on how she looks and not-so-subtly asking for more baby updates. She doesn’t know why they’re so caught up on news of the baby when there isn’t an awful lot to tell, and what she can, she writes in the daily letters anyway.

_I think they’re all so pressed for life,_ Michael writes to her. _We’ve all had to put our lives on hold for this war. We’re missing out on so much in the world and in our friends and families. But this isn’t something they’re missing out on—it’s not something they should’ve been there for but aren’t. It’s something new and exciting, and they’re seeing it be made._

A couple days later, she goes to the doctor, and sends them a picture of her ultrasound. The letter after they receive it is filled with even more compliments and messages, even if the picture looks more like a zombie than a baby.

She can imagine them in the trenches, when the fighting has stopped for the night. They’re all huddled up by each other, looking at the picture, pointing out details. _I think that’s an arm_ , one says, and then another replies, _no, you doofus, that’s a leg._ A third voice: _Uh, I think that’s a—_ and then a hit from Michael. The thought makes her smile.

_Still don’t know whether she’s a boy or girl_ , Julia writes. _Baby didn’t want to pose for us during the scan. But I swear she’s a girl—I can just feel it._

The letter that comes back has a chart on who thinks it’s a boy and who thinks it’s a girl. To her surprise, five people voted for a boy, only three for a girl, Michael has abstained from commenting, and someone voted for “lizard.”

It’s a nice rhythm, albeit a strange one. To write a letter every night not just for her husband but for his friends. To still have that excitement over becoming a family, even separated by several oceans. It’s a good life, and a comfortable one. Her father sends some money here and then, (probably because he feels guilty at not being there,) which eases Julia’s guilt of spending money on the plane rides. Her mother is over the moon, now that Julia’s expressed her own excitement over the baby. And somewhere, miles away, a troop of soldiers eagerly await on her every letter to marvel at a life created in a war, holding onto her every word. They don’t talk about him coming home, though. Only the _I miss you’s_ and _I love you’s_ , the _I can’t wait to start this family with you_.

One day, while she’s at work, she feels a little kick. She rushes home immediately and sits down, writing another letter. _She’s kicked for the first time today! She kicked me really hard. Goodness, was it fierce._

A few days later: _You know, once she started, she hasn’t stopped. She kicks all hours of the day—when I’m at work, when I’m asleep, when I’m gardening outside. I’ve started humming to quiet her down—it’s worked for the most part. Then it starts back up the minute I stop, almost like she knows._

Then a letter with countless suggestions of songs to sing to her, from classic old ballads to up-beat swing. Someone’s written Frank Sinatra, and another’s aggressively crossed the name out.

_We’re gonna start a band when we all get home. I’ll be on drums, Nova’s on keyboard and voice. I told him you sing, and now he’s convinced the two of you will sing duets. I think Baby should be frontman though, don’t you? The Trojans plus one._

It’s 23 days past now, since she saw Michael in Queensland. She knows he’s gotten the pardon, because he tells her as much. She knows he’s getting prepared to leave, to come home to her, no matter how much it hurts him.

She writes him a love poem that day, and sends it to him with her heart. He sends her letters back, so many of them, and she can see the slur in his letters from his exhaustion, but also the sharp excitement of his words.

She gets a letter every day for the better part of a month. Now it’s only one week until Michael comes home. She’s never been more excited in her life.

One day, her letter doesn’t come.

Or the next day.

Or the day after that.

The fourth day, a soldier shows up with a telegram at her door.

Two months later, she loses the baby.

\------

Donny is on the doorstep of Julia Trojan, and he’s never been more scared in his life.

Donny is on the doorstep of Julia Trojan, and he’s trying to work himself up to ringing the doorbell.

Donny is looking at Julia Trojan, the representation of his worst mistake in his life, and she looks just as radiant as she did in those pictures. As she did the one time he met her in the war.

“Hey, aren’t you a little too old to be playing ding-dong-ditch?” She says, annoyed. She’s wearing an apron and covered in flour, and he thinks he’s seen this before.

“Oh, uh, sorry ma’am,” he gets out, and he’s choking on his words a bit because God, this is the woman whose life he’d ruined, whose family she’d torn apart. She has no idea how deep that apology goes.

“What do you want? And who are you, anyway?” She’s still irritated, and rightfully so. He’s ruined her life and now he’s interrupting her evening. Of course she’s mad at him.

“I’m Donny Novitski,” he still says. “I knew Michael in the war.” And just like that, her entire demeanor changes.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. And I’m a mess—I’m baking cakes you see. I—I remember you, though. Now that I think about it.” She inhales, taking him in. “You’re the kid, aren’t you? You’re Nova.”

“Yes.” His throat’s closed up. He knew it would hurt to see her, but he wasn’t prepared for the grief to hit him. How could he be, when this is the home Rubber might’ve returned to? There’s a baby girl in there that he would’ve kissed on chubby cheeks, and a loving wife he might’ve helped baking until he was just as floury as her.

“Why don’t you come inside,” she says, and he thinks he really shouldn’t. “I can get you a cup of tea. He talked about you a fair bit in the letters.”

“He talked about you all the time,” he says without thinking, and then mentally hits himself. Was that weird to say? “He just, really loved you.”

“I lost the baby,” she says suddenly, and then her cheeks flame. “Just to let you know.”

It hits Donny again, and he feels like he’s gasping for air while he’s drowning. This woman had lost her husband and her child all in the span of months. He’ll never repent enough for something like this.

“I’m… sorry,” he says.

“It was a boy,” she goes on. He doesn’t think she knows how to stop—it just something falling out of her mouth. “I think that’s why Michael didn’t make any guesses. I was so sure it was a girl, but I think he knew it was a boy. But he didn’t want to put me down. But the baby was a boy.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, because what can you say to that?

They’re both silent for a while. It’s Michael’s love and his best friend, and the absence of him and a baby has never been clearer. They stand there awkwardly, facing each other, until Julia clears her throat.

“Come inside,” she repeats. “I’ll fix you a cup of tea. Michael loved you a lot—I’d like to find out why.”

And Donny shouldn’t. He’s already ruined this woman’s life far more than he ever thought was possible for him to ruin. He shouldn’t force himself on her life again. He’s checked that she’s okay, he’s fulfilled his promise, and he should just leave now before he starts caring even more about this woman he’s met once but known for four years, because everyone knew everyone’s family in the war. He doesn’t need to attach a face—a real one, not one he’s seen for all of five minutes or from a picture—to the woman who wrote the letters all of them crowded around, the woman who sent them a butterscotch he and Rubber shared, the woman who was supposed to be lead singer of their band because Rubber swore there was no one who sang better than his wife. The woman whose poems he read in the trenches whenever he could steal glimpses of them, who’d written the lines that he’d memorised some to heart. The woman who his best friend had once wrote to, that he had no-one to go to during his leave, so he might bring him along next year, and she’d replied that he’d be welcomed with open arms.

He knows he should walk away, but he nods and follows her inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks lol i never thought id stoop so low as to this but you learn something new about yourself every day.
> 
> God i fucking love donny i would die for him my babey.
> 
> Please leave a comment and a like i spent a disproportionately unreasonable amount of time and effort into this fic especially when i have my fucking lab report due in TWELVE HOURS for a fandom that barely anybody is in and I NEED immediate gratification u know?? Im gen z i fucking need it so badly it’s like heroin to me. And I probably should’ve just kept writing my fic of the mcu about ned peter and tony stark which would definitely get WAY more likes and more people reading it but goddamnit i love bandstand ok!!!!!! In this house we stan Corey Cott!!!!! In this house we are gay for Laura Osnes!!!!!!!
> 
> Please give me instant gratification please


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